5 yr old me: “I really liked him. We were having such fun playing in the shallows. He knew all good pools to find exciting stuff in.”

Adult me: “yeah I liked him too. He’s a good listener, interesting, gentle and attentive.”

“He made me giggle and had shared good stuff to eat. He didn’t care that I’m just a girl, made me feel special. Told good stories too…”

“yeah he’s sensitive and made me feel desirable …”

“now he’s gone… why did he go… what did I do? What did you do? Doesn’t he want to play with me anymore? Was I too noisy… maybe I talked to much, asked too many questions… you are always telling me not to talk to strangers… but YOU were snuggling up to him!”

“No you didn’t do anything wrong… you’re right it was me I got carried away with the play, the conversation… my desire…”

“but why did he go he was having fun too…”

“he got scared”

“scared? of what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will he come back?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve got a pain in my heart.”

“Me too.”

“And in my tummy…I’m scared it feels like I’m going to explode.”

“what are you scared of”

‘ the pain. If he never comes back will the pain be there forever?’

‘ I don’t know’

“But you said you would look after me. You said you wouldn’t let it happen again. You promised.”

“I know I blew it”

“ please make the pain go away?’

‘I can’t’

‘why not? You’re the grown up’

‘I’m afraid too’

‘why’

‘because the pain might last forever and I don’t know how to make it better’

‘so what shall we do?’

‘we’ll hold each other tight and feel it together’

‘that feels better… I’m still scared’

‘oh?’

‘if you’re scared… you might leave too’

‘If I do I’ll take you with cos we’re inseparable’

‘promise?’

‘cross my heart and hope to die.’

‘I feel like dying’

‘shall we go to bed instead?’

‘Ok but can I have a story….’

‘ sure, but no more fairytales’

I am not here now.
Not available,
Absent. Not present.

Hijacked,
Held hostage,
******* in a tangled web
Of locks and chains.

Trapped,
Houdini like,
In a cage and thrown
Into the turbulent waters
Of my shark infested mind.

****** in by a
Whirlpool of stories,
My thoughts spin
Epic myths,
Fantastical tales,
Dark fantasies and
Cheap thrillers.

Each teasing,
taunting and
goading me
To disconnect,
Shutdown,
To flee from
This moment.

This tender,
Aching moment.
This unashamed longing,
Drenched in the desire
To be penetrated by
Your presence,
To free fall into
The lap of the Beloved.

But you, like me,
Are not here now,
Not available,
Absent. Not present.

Sometimes it’s not possible to tune in.
Sometimes it’s not possible to find meaning.

Sometimes the box doesn’t fit me,
Or I don’t fit the box.

If I could find a box to which I fit
What colour would it be?

21 April 2009

I took my aching heart for a walk up on the moor today.

Past the lily pond and wild flower meadow to where the sky opens up over the valley. Seduced by the teasing scent of coconut and honey from the blazing gorse smouldering in the sunshine, I take the grassy path strewn with violets and head up the hill.

This morning the sun woke me to a moment of bliss. A stillness so expansively sweet that even the clattering of the refuse trucks making their weekly collection caused but a tremor to pass through. It feels like the debris of the past has been spirited away in the night leaving me swept clean and naked to this moment that stretches it’s arms wide to embrace a new dawn.

Yesterday I was shaken awake to face my Passion. Surrendering to a swell of knowing rising within me like a tidal wave that drowned all remnants of security to leave me standing on the precipice and, once more, like the Fool, I step off.

Free falling to find my wings I soar over the valley of my past, eyeing the rocky depths below through which a silver river of tears cuts through the darkness. This torrent that flooded my heart and broke through its’ defences to leave a gaping, empty hole. Empty of dreams, illusions, the fantasies that conjured a make believe world in which I could pretend I was in control.

Softly I tread up the path, walking on shifting sands, everywhere new life is emerging from winter slumber. Ponies graze and grunt in the spring sunshine, mother and foal amble past connected by that invisible thread that connects heart and mind. The past no longer restrains me. I am free to run, headlong into my heart and fall completely, passionately, and blissfully in love with this tender, raw shoot rising within me and calling to me like a hungry new lover.

The longing for a passionate life in which each intimate moment connects me more deeply to my true Essence into which I die and am reborn over, and over into it’s ocean of emptiness and bliss.

I took my aching heart for a walk today and found a path to freedom.

23 September 2009

There is an ache that has imprisoned my heart, wrapping itself round in a tight hug. Selfishly it stands guard like a jealous lover allowing no other to tease open its grasp. This ache, a memory trapped in a web of fear and unconscious, unresolved pain.

At times my heart is still, unfeeling, disconnected from the pulse of this pain. In denial, split off, ambivalent. Easier to hide, to slip peacefully into the warm treacle of numbness, pushing away anyone or anything that will trigger the tremor, the after shock of that quake that shook my foundations and brought me face to face with my terror and rage.

My heart is lost with no map for this uncharted grief. His death caused a tsunami that swept away the familiar landscape in which my heart travelled, weary but with faith, along a well trodden path.
Now it surveys a desert devoid of familiar landmarks, open to the elements with no shelter from the dust storms of emotions that create a whirl of confusion through which I can see no way forward. Left with no option but to lie low I must keep faith that this too shall pass.

Can there be love after death? My heart aches with this quest. He went out with the fading light of summer and my tears fell with the leaves from the trees. A blaze of colour lit the moor as his body burned to ash and my heart went into hibernation, drawing in the light to wrap close for comfort from the cold shock of his sudden disappearance.

To love again is to face this loss over and over. To love again is to become intimate with the fear, this terror of the pain and embrace it without shame. My battle weary heart longs for peace, for surrender so it can come home to rest in the tender arms of a new love and feel the soft breath of longing like the spring sunshine on a new born lamb.

As love born after death takes her first wobbly steps my heart trembles with anticipation of the fall. But if the first shoots of spring were to fear autumn there would be no flowering, no opening to the light, no summer and no harvest. To love again is to trust again. To fall over and over, like the canopy of a tree returning head over heels to the earth year after year.

I feel the soreness in my heart as the light draws in and the leaves turn to fire in the cool night air.

My bare feet walking across the green fields connect deeply with the cool earth, they know the way… this is the path home, this is where I belong. Do you get that feeling about places and about people too, like you’ve met them before or known them all your life?

You ask me ‘where are you from?’. ‘Right here’ I say, knowing that the answer you are waiting for, expecting, is only skin deep. Because what is visible to you, the mask of a distant land, is not my true face, and the question you are afraid to ask is ‘Who are you and where do you really belong?’

When you catch my passing reflection who do you see? Who can you see beneath this earth-toned façade? Can you see my mothers legs walking toward you, my father smile as my grandmother’s eyes search your face and my grandfathers hand reaches out to take yours? Who are you and where do you really belong?

Come, dance with me, your answer is not in my words. My answer is not in your eyes. Let your feet move to the rhythm of my heartbeat, let me feel your ancestors dancing in my DNA. Let our bodies tell their tale for my blood holds the memory my tongue forgot, my sweat the taste of ancient prayers. Who are you and where do you really belong?

Which Mother land gave birth to my soul? Lashmi, Durga, Kali, Saraswati in your womb I dance… with Venus, Isis, Aphrodite, Yemaya, Sekmet, Demeter… ******, mother, crone… who are you? Where do you really belong?

The eternal quest to find the source, ashes to ashes, dust unto dust the earth swallows my dance and I stand still with mud between my toes. For an instant your mask drops and I know who I am and where I really belong….

Where are the words my body whispers
When the dance moves flesh and bones?

Where are the words my feet search for
Deep in the compost of my Soul?

Where are words taking flight
On the wings of birds as
Hips circle knees and belly tickles toes?

Where do they flee, these words
Fear wraps round heart and lungs?

Where do they hide ready to trip the
Light, Fantastic, fleeting truth rising from
The deep well of my being?

Where are the words?

This tremor burns up my spine
As a vast ocean of aching promise
Washes up on the shore of my Being.

Why do I question the
Unknown territory of my heart
The shattered past has
no home there.

Why do I fear love
When it slips unsigned
Through the letterbox
Of my longing?

Like a seagull surfing the wind
My Soul hangs suspended
Wings open,
Waiting to swoop
into the embrace
Of the Beloved.

Entering the garden
Where Krishna plays
I taste the sweet music
Of your smile as a
Pair of pink lotus
Blossoms caress
In the stillness.

I listen to the flowers
Breathing their fragrance
Into the evening air
As I walk, bare hearted,
Through luminous grass
Damp with desire.

Entering the garden
Where Radha sighs
You touch my rawness
With your longing
Innocent of the storm
Brewing in my silence.

Then without warning
The clouds of grief break
To unleash a tsunami
That takes no prisoners.

Storm
Rain
River
Stones.

Wet
Leaves
Tender
Bones.

Going
Home,
G­oing
Home.

Feel the tremor…
…The flicker…
The static charge
Of bliss
Whisper HER sweet
Breath through
Your Being.

No time to stop,
No time to be waylaid
By Fears’ tearful face.
Kiss this moment awake
Caress it’s cheek,
Open your eyes
To the Beauty beating
In your trembling breast.

Sometimes life is quiet, don't push.
There are no 'shoulds'.
Peace is inner silence,
Be still and listen to the
Quiet whisper of your soul.

She is powerful in her silence.
No need to make noise to be seen
No need to make show to be heard
Get in there, deep inside
And rest in the dance.

Know your flow that
Bubbles and burbles along.
Don't be clever, simple is good.
Simple is quiet.

She is sleeping in the shade,
Your inside self.
She who dances to the song
In your heart is quietly listening
To the rhythm of your soul beat.

Cradle your knowing,
Your hearts lullaby will
Rock your soul and
Fan the fire of sleeping passion.

Come little one your feet
Have wings that angels envy
And your eyes closed to darkness
Sparkle like a galaxy of stars
On a moonlit sea.

Come, rock gently, rest.
Sometimes life is quiet
Don't push or pull.
Listen to the hum of the silence
Be still, let HER dance.

Stain your body
With fingers dipped
In the colour of
Joy and peace
Wet with the tears
Of the World
And know HER
Blessing.

Drench your heart
In a shower of petals
Dripping with the sound
Of silent thunder
And sink deep
Into HER embrace.

Fill your womb with
Sweet nectar ******
From the agony and ecstasy
Of HER love making
And bleed compassion
Onto a parched Earth.

The bird by the river
Does not ask ‘why was I born?’
The bird by the river
She sings HER song.

The tree by the river
Asks not ‘what shall I do?’
The tree by the river
She blossoms and blooms.

The stones by the river
Ask not ‘wherefore or why?’
The stones by the river
Sit still and sigh.

The river
She sighs,
She dances,
She sings.
The river lets
Each moment
Give her wings.

Breathe in
Breathe out
Oh Temple of
Flesh and bone
Blood and tears

Breathe in
Breathe out
Oh caged heart
Touched tender
By weeping fears

Breathe in
Breathe out
Oh dancing drum of
Pleasure and pain
Re-move this stain

Breathe in
Breathe out
Oh Scarred, Scared,
Sacred Fledgling
Breathe…

Spread your wings
And fly home to
Roost in the breast
Of The Beloved

There can be
Little said about
The hearts desire
Amidst the bustle
Of waking life

As the sun
Scorches the sky
And burns a hole
In her confusion.
A lazy, discontented

Lover strangled by
Words that stick
In his throat languishes
In the heat as she
Cools off in the breeze

Of his indifference.
Exposed, alone in a
Translucent ocean of
Discontent, she floats on
The surface of indecision
And ambivalence

When at last the
Changing tide sweeps
Him off to another shore
Leaving her free to dive
Deep for her pearl and

Much more… much more.

This beauty
This light
This dance
This healing

This wealth
This leaf
This sigh
This feeling

This tear
This bud
This dew
This fear

   is love
   is me
This love
   is You.

I read between the lines
of black and white faces,
that stare, unblinking,
from the other side of a dream,
a child born free *******
on the fruits of a lost Empire.

The memories are slippery, sweet,
like the ripe flesh of a mango
squelched between eager fingers
stained by the heat of summer.
Shady like the flaming canopy
of a gul mohur tree,
dancing abandoned like a
rubber slipper, bobbing carefree
on a warm ocean wave that
carried my seed across the miles
on forgotten promises
into the arms of a dark night.

Searching for the colour,
I hear the cacophony of racing tongues,
uncommon wealthy mouths closed
to the stench of the natives rotting
like sardines packed into tin can shelters.

In the blackness they awaken me
like a telegram from a long lost relative
arriving on the next train from nowhere
laden elephant like, tin trunks filled
with the treasures still hidden somewhere
in the bottom drawer of my mind.

The technicolour *** bits wrapped
in faded fragments of my imagination,
tied with the string of longing that tugs
back to the creation of this child
ripping open a present from the past.

Unaware of the black and white gaze,
she runs wild, abandoned,
innocent, invisible
child of loves lost dream,
her playground a museum
of passion and pain.

Born free ******* on the fruits of a lost Empire.

That morning
the path carried
our feet down
to the river
through trees that
tremor like verdant
virgins blushing
in the sunshine.

The water flows gently,
lazily ignoring our chatter
as we sit, two strangers,
listening between the
lines drawn in each
others imagination.

He’d heard the call
of my hearts longing
and answered with
a tumble of words
that caught me
by surprise…
Wise fool and
humble lion
exploring the depths
with this shy fish.

Diving down
again, and again
we surface with
one precious pearl
after another…
Memories, heartache,
insight and secrets,
opening our shells
vulnerable and true.

A voyage began
that morning when
the path carried
our souls down
to the river.
As we stepped
onto our raft of
broken dreams
I felt a shiver
echo upstream.

10/5/11

Two lovers wed
as, along this path,
we walk, talk,
shed secrets,
and kick dust,
festooned by
cheering flowers
that tremble with
Nature’s lust.

The brides eyes
like the ocean
shimmer as I
catch a glimmer
of Hope Cove
shining bright...
it’s love,
at first sight!

As joy unfolds
her story,
touched by
the majesty,
the magic
of this land,
we stand,
like royalty
basking… in all
it’s golden glory!

29 April 2011
Hope Cove, Devon.

You cling to me like
cold, wet socks on
a summers day.
Drowning me
under a blanket
of fog… I’ve forgotten
the reason why.

Flattened under
the weight
of your dull ache
I lie here
immovable.
Petrified,
abandoned,
like that forest in
the Arizona desert,
lost in time
with no trust
in ever being found.

As you swallow
into your depths
my hurt,
anger,
joy and
passion,
may you
choke
on my pain,
drown
in my sorrow,
be smothered
by my love.

And, as hope
squeezes out
your last breath,
my spirit will rise
from beneath
your damp corpse
to cry.
Defiant,
alive,
alight,
and always,
always
hungry
for the sky.

She moved me.
Dancing in a
circle of women
She moved me.

Rising from the Earth
into my womb
through my heart
to the tips of my fingers
She moved through me.

With her sacred dance
She showed me
how to dip into
Her honey ***,
arousing a lust
for Life’s sweet Nectar.

A longing
so deep that my
blind fingers *****
in the dark for
one touch from
the lips of
The Beloved.
One lick,
one ****,
one sigh,
one moment
of bliss
before I die
to this dance,

to the thundering
footsteps
in my breast.

My howling heart
drives me home.
The walls of my car
shocked into silence
by the wailing.

Failing to hide my
cheeks awash with
the fear that she will
swallow me whole,
spit out my soul,
stamp out my flame.

Ashamed, I feel
trapped by my rage.
Compassion has flown
out the window with Love
and I cannot cage
self pity
self loathing
self doubt.

What if I can
never love her
as a daughter should,
a daughter could,
a daughter would,
if she only understood.

If only I understood.

Seaweed, steamy
piled high
on baked sand.

Fried flesh with
vacant smiles
attracting flies.

Seagulls scream
as dog chases ball.

One summers day
you left a package
on the doorstep
addressed to my heart.

I find your patience and
persistence alarming,
yet the tenderness
soothes my soreness
and in the desert
a smile is born.

Blind to your beauty
I stumble in the dark as,
with feline stealth, you
tiptoed in to curl
gently round my pain.

As my heart rips open
the clouds of grief break
sending a monsoon of blessings
to flood my desire and
soak my parched body.

One summers day
you left a package
on the doorstep
addressed to my heart
only to have it
returned to sender.

My soul whispers
in the darkness
‘You are a flower
that blooms at night.
Shine bright, shine bright!’

She hands me
a blossom exploding
with passion.
Shimmering,
glittering,
spiralling,
spinning,
radiating
­her essence
like a star bursting
open the night sky.

‘You are a flower
that blooms at night.
Shine bright, shine bright!
Come, lead me
from darkness
into the light.’

You died.
One day in Sept
like an Autumn leaf
crashing to the ground
in a blaze of colour
You died.

The sunflowers
in full bloom
decked the box
in which you lay
too young
too soon
too sudden
you died.

And all that
you left behind
was a scream
where I
had once been.

Moving swiftly on
packing my life
into cardboard.
Boxes lie strewn,
filled with folded clothes,
books, bits of paper.

Memories trapped
on the page all pile
into containers
destined for yet
another shelter.

A new home,
strange,
unknown,
exciting.
Apprehension
lies lost somewhere
in the debris of fast
approaching deadlines.

Beginning to piece together
the jigsaw of suitcases,
bags, holdalls, and
supermarket cartons,
packed like sardines
into the belly of my car
I journey into the future.

The wheels of
life accelerate.
Hardly pausing
to look back,
shifting gear,
I struggle to
remember
where
I packed
myself...

This is the place where faeries sleep, down,
by the river burbling over mossy boulders, beside
the pink Rhododendron caressed by the sun.
Where I wait, feeling my wanting,
my longing as I meet the Beloved.

The light is everywhere, shimmering
on the wings of a bumblebee as it swings by
lazily unaware of my desire rising from the root
effervescent like the bubbles chasing
each other on the surface of the water.

So alive,
so exciting,
so exquisite,
so magical,
so perfect,
so NOW.
This meeting
this touching
this connecting
this tasting
this falling...

This falling
truly, madly, deeply in
love with this moment,
this tender, fragile, faltering
moment that is me.

This exquisite Eden that I have
uncovered at my core,
this awakening of the unforbidden
so luscious, so delicious in it’s invitation
to taste it’s sweet aliveness that
my heart has abandoned all shame,
and is lost in the lust,
blown open in wonder
at the awesome,
the indescribable
thrill of this dance,
this movement
toward death.

Each moment so precious,
each moment  a jewel,
each moment in which
I am alive, AWAKE and wanting.

This is the place where faeries sleep.
Down, by the river.

‘What is it like
to meet me
without your
ideas about me?’,
you ask.

The question hangs
between us,
two strangers,
curiously suspended
in not knowing.

I don’t even
know your name
yet we meet
and share this
moment,
eyes locked
in tender gaze.

I had no ideas
about you till
you asked,
now they flood in
tripping over
each other with
habitual ease.

‘I have no ideas
about you,’
I think…
But why then
am I surprised
by the softness
of your voice,
the Irish lilt,
delighted by
your insights,
your honesty,
and open clarity?

Enchanted by
this moment,
this opportunity
to meet you,
to dwell in
the mystery
without fear,
no name,
no history,
no map to
show the way.
I cannot fix
you, pin
you down,
fit you in a
box and stick
a label on
your tongue.

And, I have
no mask to
hide from your
unblinking stare.

A Zen master
once said
‘Not knowing
is most intimate.’

Now, knowing
this to be so true,
a smile grows
in my heart
where fear
had once
taken root.

A crimson river flows
as life ebbs away.
Delirious,
body wasted,
all boundaries
are fading as
they cling to hope.

Clutching the straw
between my lips
******* in the promise
of my last chance
as white figures
surround me
speaking in tongues
that shatter my world
tear open my belly
to rip out the source.

The crimson river
runs dry and
I am reborn.
Floating upstream
on ripples of pain
and confusion
I ride waves
of gratitude
and self doubt.

Angry flies stick
to the molasses
of my mind
dragging circles
within circles,
thrashing,
sinking,
surfacing,
clinging.
Thoughts
oozing,
churning,
bubbling,
burnin­g...
Fire flies
who's hunger
consume my centre
caramelising reason.

Trapped wings,
frozen dance,
dead flight,
clenched heart,
fighting for breath,
I surrender and
open the cage.
Letting go,
letting life in.

Fighting crying
laughing playing
skipping running
playing ball.

Bell ringing
doors banging
voices fading
wind chasing
sweet wrappers
as silence falls.

Her spirit was lost
when I was born,
torn from her heart.

Start, from the
beginning, singing,
no lullaby for
this new born.

Cry baby, cry as
her spirit did die,
she fled, bled, dead.

Alive in body
lightening sent to
her brain drained
what fire was left.

Bereft this child
still cries in the dark,
hark! Where is the
Lullaby, hushaby,
For this new born?

What do I know of love?

My heart aches with the loss,
the knowing that death
comes too soon.

What do I know of love?

My soul weaves a starlit
blanket to wrap my aching
heart in soft longing.

What do I know of love?

I dance in the eyes
of the Beloved and
blink back the tears.

Trying to find words
as feelings expand
in the darkness
I reach out to
discover this ache,
this longing,
this love.

I close my eyes
to witness your smile,
to melt in the memory
of your touch,
and in the silence
you dazzle me
with your words.

But I am not blind
to the innocent one who
winks at me shyly
as he crawls from
under your shadow
to take my hand.

I fall and my love
catches me.

Rising
from my belly,
throbbing
in my heart,
trapped
by my tongue,
this tremor
fills my being
and explodes
to drop into
the space
between us.

Your eyes
watching,
seeing,
but not hearing
this deep,
silent,
deafening
scream that,
strangled
by description,
suddenly
dissolves

into a roar
of relief
and release.
As I fall into
the cradle of
awareness
she opens wide
her arms
to rock me
gently
Awake.

You blink
and I rest
in the moment.

If there is
but one thirst,
there is only
one mirror,
one heart,
one ache,
one pilgrim,
and one gaze
in which even
the blind will
see the Beloved
and drown in
a single drop
released with a
blink of your eye.

We meet.
Grey blue filling
with beauty
your eyes drip
sweet agony
and ecstasy.

Thirsty,
I drink from
the well spring
of your honesty
like dew on
a desert flower.

Your words awaken
a rawness so naked
that truth cannot
hide her scars
and fear has no
place to run.

Pink roses festoon the entrance
to the place where I arrive
to meet the Beloved.
Summer has thrown open her doorway
to my confusion and I am lost.

Like an owl crying for her lost lover
You call and something in me stirs.
Answering this whisper that pulls
my soul from it’s slumber,
feeling my wanting,
lost in my longing and
not knowing, I am here.

In the stillness you meet my gaze.
In my question I feel your embrace,
your desire, your love.
But, there is no you
there is no me.

Only this Passion
Only this Presence
That tickles my toes,
thrusts through my core and
erupting in my heart, expands
to answer my question,
to feed my yearning.

Then, tasting the fruit of
summer’s first harvest
I rest.

I heard an owl cry
in the distance,
as the snowdrops nod
to the howling moon,
Wake up!
Fan that spark!
For under winters’ blanket
Spring is blushing
in the dark.